


Relief Pilot

by Anonymous



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Abusive Relationships, BDSM, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Sadism, Sexual Slavery, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-07 01:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12222816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: AU where Herc and Douglas run a small charter airline and Martin is their unpaid, and underappreciated, 'relief' pilot. First chapter is reworked from a kinkmeme fill and it only gets darker and even less innocent.Please head the warnings.





	1. Chapter 1

Douglas doesn’t even bother to look over as Martin makes a noise. It’s probably meant to be speech, words garbled around the thick rubber plug – a shorter fatter version of the one in his arse – that gives him something to bite down on and keeps him stifled. If Martin had something to say he should have said it earlier, and the gag is necessary. They don’t want to draw attention, after all, and even in the rattiest of hotel rooms there could still be someone in the next suite. 

The twin beds are pushed right apart – one against the wall and the other, the one Martin is laid out on, in the middle of the fraying carpet. It’s easy with two, one to quiet Martin down as the other tightens the straps that splay his arms and legs wide. All the soft underbelly exposed, so pale he’s almost luminescent. Douglas runs a fingertip down along the ridges of the ribcage, the belly, the unruly hair and inch or two of fragile, drooping, genitalia. 

Martin tries to speak again, and this time Douglas does glance at him, just briefly, long enough to check he’s not choking. 

‘Something interesting to say Martin?’ He asks. ‘Well it'll have to wait.’ 

The bonds go under the bedframe, passed from Douglas’ hands to Herc’s and strapped tight. They hold the whole thing stable, even if Martin wriggles and tries to kick his heels. At the moment he’s not struggling though, only refusing to look at either of them, gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling as Douglas slides his hand lower, under his balls, and lifts them so that he and Herc can feast their eyes elsewhere. 

‘Someone is being very childish.’ Herc slips his hand in under Douglas’ as he speaks, worms one dry fingertip against the long rubber dildo and past the tight muscle of Martin’s sphincter. Martin clenches instinctively, uselessly, trapping the intruder he’s trying to push out. 

Herc pulls a face at the sudden pressure. ‘Oh why not just blindfold him Douglas, if he’s going to sulk at us.’ He pulls his finger free – it’s not difficult, Martin’s resistance was only a spasm – and rummages in the already open first aid kit for a bandage. 

‘I don’t know why he does this.’ He mutters.

‘Slow learner.’ Douglas takes the bandage and winds it round Martin’s head. He co-operates, more resigned than anything else now. ‘There, all done. Now maybe we can get started.’

‘Are you sure someone isn’t already?’ Herc flicks lightly at Martin’s skinny cock, already half-hard. It lolls lewdly, drunkenly, and they both snigger. 

Then Herc takes a firmer hold and slides the foreskin slowly up and down, hiding and revealing the shiny, sensitive skin beneath. 

The slow stain of a blush creeps up over Martin’s chest and neck. 

‘It doesn’t take much does it?’ Herc says, feeling the shaft thicken further in his hand. He’s done this enough times to know what Martin likes. How to get him off quickly and reasonably cleanly, spurting into a tissue he has ready for the purpose. 

Martin’s flinches minutely when Douglas touches his prick again. He’s sensitive after his orgasm, squirms at the thin snout of a lube bottle pushing a centimetre or so into his cock, the thin drizzle of liquid. 

‘Grow up Martin.’ Douglas strokes over the slit with his thumb, squeezing to make it widen out, applies the lube again. 

He holds Martin’s cock steady, ready for Herc to slip the sound in. Martin is making noises again, still probably meant to be words, but he goes quiet, shocked, as the metal rod penetrates his body more deeply, drops in cleanly for the first few inches; weighted at the bottom, slim and smooth and coated with slick, and then the rest of the way with very little resistance.

‘Expecting something else?’ Douglas asks quietly. ‘Well, we like to keep you on your toes.’ 

He squeezes the length of Martin’s shaft, fingers overlapping his thumbs closely, ready for Herc to pull back on the sound. This way he can feel – they can both feel - the slow drag out of Martin’s body again, the friction that makes him shudder and whine. 

‘Naughty.’ Douglas tells him, picking up the ruler to give one sharp smack to Martin’s thigh. More corrective than cruel for now, like the slap administered to a hysteric. 

The second sound is not obviously much bigger, but it doesn’t need to be. They’ll work up in stages to the biggest. And although Martin has gone quite, quite still – the mark of the ruler a red stripe of pain across his thigh – Douglas has played with him often enough to know how much he’s affected. The tension in his body, the curling of his toes on the drag back out, are all as good as squeals to Douglas. 

‘Your turn I think.’ Herc pinches Martin’s cock between finger and thumb, tugging lightly to encourage Douglas to let go and select the third sound. They all look bigger in the case than they do in the hand, but this one does seem quite solid, easier to keep hold of. Douglas coats it thinly, and surrenders the bottle to Herc to squeeze a little more of the lube as far as he can into Martin’s cock. 

His free hand closes over Herc’s - the better to guide himself, and the rounded end of the sound touches Martin’s slit, rubs briefly, then edges in. Douglas takes his time, shifting it when there seems to be some difficulty, trying again. He wants Martin to feel powerless, invaded, hurt, humbled - all things Martin gets off on anyway – but he doesn’t want to have to take him to hospital.

Herc doesn’t squeeze hard enough as Douglas removes it and they have to try again, reversing their roles, before they move on to number four. Martin listens to them bickering over it, so oddly, humiliatingly normal, as if what they’re doing to him is nothing to them. His skin feels tight and warm and he knows he’s blushing hideously. Bright red.

He’s getting harder again too, and number four doesn’t go in as smoothly as the others. Has to be twisted and lifted and dropped and twisted again before it will go all the way in, and Martin has not stopped squirming. 

‘I think we can leave it in for now.’ Douglas lets the younger man’s cock flop back onto his stomach, the flat handle of the sound jutting up out of it like a spear. ‘Let’s see how our boy’s doing.’ 

The phallus is wet and sloppy as they remove it, Martin’s mouth red and loose, stretched around the thing. 

‘Well?’ Douglas asks. ‘Anything to say?’ 

‘Is there more?’ Martin’s face is blotched, overheated, his hair a staticky mess. Objectively speaking he’s not a pretty sight, but Douglas rather likes the effect. 

‘Just another four.’ He says casually. 

Martin shudders, dismayed. Although that could just be because Herc is now playing with Martin’s cock, nudging it one way and then back again, across his stomach, like a pendulum, weighted with the metal. 

Somewhere in the square outside people are talking, the sound carried easily through the thin metal window frame. The shower has also started up next door. 

Martin could scream for help, but they already know he won’t. Not even as Herc pulls his cock out 90 degrees from his body and lets it drop back again, twice, three times, and Martin whimpers.

‘I think Hercules is getting impatient.’ Douglas says fondly. Best to push the phallus back – with, Douglas can’t help noticing, Martin’s co-operation - and buckle it into place. 

‘Nice chat?’ Herc asks, squeezing so that this sound too comes out slowly and – probably – painfully. 

‘Much as usual, really.’ 

‘Mind if I do the next one as well?’ 

‘Be my guest.’ Douglas keeps the ruler handy to slap a little sense back into Martin if he struggles. 

By now the sounds are visibly, obviously, larger. Martin’s dimpled slit is gaping, the drizzled lube working in deeper, the sounds teased and wiggled to get them in, and then bottoming out to the accompaniment of Martin’s smothered cries as it all becomes too much, too long, and Douglas is forced to resort to the ruler again. 

He takes over for number seven himself. Martin’s storm has passed and apart from the heaving of his chest he’s quiet. This one feels enormous, cold and alien and horrible, and doesn’t really want to go in, but Douglas turns it, takes it out to coat it again, is patient and cruel and thorough, and gets it all the way. 

Martin is definitely at least half hard now, and the last sound is just as stubborn, and once in, quite definitely stuck. 

‘Leave it there.’ Herc suggests, as Douglas lets it fall back and smack on Martin’s belly. ‘It almost makes his silly little chipolata a respectable size.’ 

Martin has been biting down on the gag, but he has to let go as Herc unbuckles it and straddles his body to masturbate over his mouth and chin, alternating the smooth glide of his hand with short tugs and squeezes and rubbing his cock against Martin’s soft looking lips until they part and let just the very tip in. 

He can’t ravish Martin’s mouth properly – he’ll choke him - but he can taint his lips and tongue, and he can make Martin lick his hand clean when he’s finished. 

‘I’ll leave you in charge Douglas. I don’t suppose he’ll give you any trouble.’ 

‘No I don’t suppose he will.’ 

Martin thinks he hears a kiss before Herc goes off to his own room, but he’s not sure. He’s starting to shiver now, and Douglas pulls a blanket over him, props an extra pillow under his head, unwinds the bandages. 

He doesn’t touch the tethers, or Martin’s swollen, sheathing, cock. Doesn’t touch Martin again at all. Just strips completely and slides between his own sheets, leaving Martin exactly as he is for the night. 

‘Goodnight Martin. Sleep tight.’


	2. Chapter 2

By the morning Martin is soft, and the sound slides free relatively easily. It startles him into wakefulness, still not quite used to being.. handled. He still looks pretty shagged out, wan and wide eyed, arse clenching around the dildo when Douglas makes him kneel, hands behind his back, mouth open and ready to be fucked. 

Douglas swears as he comes, quiet but intense, and Martin’s throat works frantically to stop himself from spilling a single drop on Douglas’ clean clothes, Douglas’ freshly washed skin. 

He goes to take his own shower like a man in a trance, still without speaking, and leaves the bathroom door open and unlocked. Douglas doesn’t even have to tell him anymore. 

Privacy is for other people. Real people. Proper pilots. 

Like Herc, who comes round for his while Martin is in the shower, but lets him get clean first. Brush his teeth. 

Then takes him over the bed again as soon as he emerges, scrubbed and fresh, and without any aids other than the same clear scentless lube from before. 

The blankets are rough against Martin’s cheek, the tiles cold against his knees. Douglas’ fingers are fisted in his hair to keep him still, and the dildo thrust back in – clean only because Martin cleaned it – as soon as Herc is finished. 

Martin moans, the first sound he has made yet, and his tears dampen the blanket beneath him. 

‘Shall I give you something to cry about?’ Douglas is snide, sarky. Not malicious, but not kind. Pulls Martin’s hair so that he has to scramble up, naked, and lay himself down, belly and thighs and hardening cock pressed to the mattress. He knows what’s coming, saw the ruler in Douglas’ hand, is aware Douglas will take his silence as consent. 

He bites down on the pillow as Douglas smacks him flat across his thighs, smothers his cries at the first and second blow, the third and fourth and fifth and sixth. 

Douglas knows he’s hard, that the blanket is sweet cruel friction against his naked skin, and that Martin will be quiet and good and still until his arse is striped red and hot to the touch, until tears are running freely down his cheeks, and until Douglas throws the ruler down and declares himself ready for breakfast. 

‘Go ahead.’ Herc has already had coffee this morning. He doesn’t mind waiting until Douglas has finished before going down himself, bringing Martin back some pastries and fruit, since he can’t possibly sit up at the table. 

He can walk though, just about, so they take him out to wander Barcelona until one o’clock, giving the hotel time to clean their rooms, enjoying the warmth and the coffee and the chaos before they bring him back and tie him face down this time, ready to be fucked not only by them, but a couple of vibrators Herc has thoughtfully provided, the dildo Martin slept in last night, the neck of an unopened wine bottle. Herc’s fingers, a bar of soap, the receiver of the phone by the bed, and finally Douglas’ fist, finish the job off. 

By 3pm Martin is red faced, choked with tears, drooling humiliatingly around the gag, arse red and open and sodden with spunk and lube. 

‘Your cock loves it though.’ Herc points out, squeezing Martin’s firm (overly firm) balls to make the point. Martin only sobs, body jerking weakly, inviting further ridicule, and the shower head – unscrewed from the hose and lubed thickly – up his arse for an encore. 

He can’t possibly go out again, so Douglas volunteers to get some food and (at Herc’s suggestion) a box of matches. They already have pins and crocodile clips and the thin metal coat hangers so useful for twisting into interesting shapes. 

Martin only shook his head when they asked him what he wanted, too shaken to say much at all, and of course they could only allow him a short while – ten, twenty minutes to catch his breath and swallow some cold tea - before they had to gag him again and take him into the bathroom to give him his enema. 

Still, even if he chokes on it he does have to eat something, and there are churros and some small salami pizzas which Douglas knows to be very good cold. Food they can feed him bite by bite, later in the evening, when a hundred small blisters have been raised across Martin’s thighs and arse and scrotum, and a thick white slick of come is leaching from his arse again, drying to an opaque scum down his thigh. 

They fuck him again, even later, half-watching some terrible television game show but mostly talking between themselves until the latest possible moment, only taking the gag out at last when Herc heads to his own room for the night. Confident that Martin won’t make a fuss. 

Is almost passed out, in fact. 

Next morning they fly to Brussels, a shortish hop, just cargo. Martin spends it kneeling on the flightdeck floor. Not gagged, but hogtied. He’s still jumpy, defeated, only speaking when he’s spoken to. Still weak with exhaustion, although he put on a good front after the caffe solo Herc bought him at the airport, still bruised and welted, still plugged. Still their ‘relief pilot’, sucking Douglas off in the galley before they disembark, thrilling with fear and heat and shame at the taste and the choking fullness of it, at the shaking in his limbs, weak and unco-ordinated from the tethers, the tightness in his chest and the fingers tight and twisted in his hair. 

That’s part of Martin’s appeal, that he’s such a squirmy little runt. Not really in a position to fight back even if he wanted. Even if he wasn’t grateful for the attention, for being made to feel real, connected, wired in. For having somewhere to fit. Still always the odd one out, the butt of the joke, the sucker, but here he can embrace it, let it define him. Can stop struggling. 

They’re at the airport hotel, and all sharing this time, which means Martin spends the stopover tied over a sturdy little table probably meant for a desk, occasionally fed chocolate or beer, and fucked repeatedly in his raw, aching arse. Plugged with the dildo in between sessions to keep him ready, draped with a blanket when they’ve finished. 

His single bed lies empty, Herc and Douglas sharing, since theirs is the real relationship. Martin is only a diversion, passed and played with between them. Bruising nicely now, very tearful, very tender. 

He spends most of the night awake, and is perversely grateful for his colleagues, steering him through the airport next morning so he doesn’t have to do anything at all except follow them. It’s a relief to sink to the floor when ordered, and snatch some rest. 

They walk him down the steps too, and into the office. Fuck him while he’s still half out of it over Douglas’ desk – even being fully unconscious wouldn’t spare him his duties – and let him sleep on his beanbag in the corner while the paperwork is completed and filed. 

‘Come on Martin.’ Douglas says at last. ‘Home.’ He’s missed dinner, the takeaway Herc went out for, but they let him eat some in the car, queasily ravenous, and drink a litre bottle of water in great gulps, so that he has to use the toilet as soon as they get back. 

‘Take your clothes off while you’re in there.’ Douglas doesn’t bother to raise his voice. Knows Martin will hear it. He’s quite tired himself, but he’s been looking forward to getting home again. To quiet and privacy and soundproofing. 

Martin does as he’s told, comes back down the stairs naked, still sleepy and awkward, and lets them suspend him in an empty doorframe so that they can whip his back and arse in turns, egging each other on, competitive but united all the same. It makes his blood pump faster again, his skin flare, tears sting his eyes. They scare him when they're like this, speaking the same language, wanting the same things, mocking his weakness when he sobs. Telling him he asked for this. Is still asking for it. That he wants to be made to cry. 

They're right, of course, he knows that. It doesn't make it less frightening, and by the end Martin has half collapsed, jerking like a marionette, a broken thing. Begging for mercy as they fuck him, one after another, and reeling drunkenly when they finally let him down and cuff his arms behind his back. 

They have to half-carry him to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

Herc has gone the next morning when Martin wakes. Probably to AirCal – he’s taking redundancy, but Martin isn’t sure it’s gone through yet. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t speak unless he’s spoken to. There’s nothing he has to say they’d find interesting. It’s all about planes, his stupid obsession, and they’re bored of planes. 

He laps at the coffee Douglas puts in front of him, hands still behind his back. It’s going to be that sort of day then. Douglas toying idly with Martin on a leash, demanding blowjobs, a constant low grade growl of hunger in Martin’s stomach and the dull heat of humiliation and arousal as he’s made to shuffle on his knees, roll over to demonstrate his submission. 

At least Douglas lets him keep his trousers on this time, knees scuffing against the carpet. Martin’s slower than usual, stiffening up from last night’s beating, and Douglas makes a point of sighing and hurrying him along with short tugs on the leash. The collar is tight to Martin’s neck, deep enough to force him to keep his head erect, thick enough that Douglas could drag him along if he wanted. 

He doesn’t though, not today. It’s enough that Martin knows it could happen. 

His injuries heal well enough in three days to operate out to Japan, and Douglas has him sit quietly in the co-pilot’s chair on the return journey as well, just in case he’s needed. Not, as Douglas makes entirely clear, that he will be. There’s something vicious about Douglas on the return flight. Openly bored of being gentle, and everything he says is barbed. 

The insults make Martin’s cock twitch, a sharp tease of arousal, like the lash stroking over his skin before it’s put to its proper use. They make his throat tighten too though, which is stupid because if Douglas sees it - or worse, if Martin actually starts crying, now, with no real reason - Douglas will mock him all the more. So Martin stares straight out at the clouds and tries to think of something, anything, else.

They go straight home this time, logbook be damned, and Martin strips in the bedroom under Douglas’ eye, crawls face first onto his bed. There are still bruises from the other night, brighter colours muddying as they heal, and a couple where the skin was broken and has crusted over, but he's clearly alright. 

In the brighter light of the rooms downstairs older injuries would be visible, thin silvery scars cutting through the cascade of freckles down Martin’s shoulders. 

The electricity wouldn’t though, and that’s what Douglas’ jaded palate wants tonight. To torment Martin but leave him undamaged, only tying him down to his bed with rope when he starts to thrash about, and only gagging him when his pleas and shrieks get wearisome. Walking away for minutes or half hours, but always to come back and resume. In as far as is possible, Martin is used to this too. He knows that when Douglas breaks off it doesn’t mean it’s over, and that letting himself be gagged halfway through will be assumed consent. 

But he still can’t argue. He hasn’t the guts, hasn’t the balls, and besides he’s a dirty little masochist with a hard on even though he knows he isn't, actually, going to get off. 

That’s the best bit, to Douglas’ mind. The fatalistic terror in Martin’s eyes, and the solidity of his cock in Douglas’ hands, demonstrating just how very, very, fucked up Martin is. 

‘Don’t you think so?’ He asks, pausing again to take a few snapshots so that he can show Herc what he’s been missing. And Martin nods obediently, even though he’s not sure what the question was. He’s already been buggered twice, still squirming and sobbing. Plus the dildo, to make it easier for next time. He’s stopped trying to keep up now. He just wants to get through it. If that means agreeing with whatever Douglas says, then that is what Martin will do. 

Later, after Douglas has finally, truly left, Martin spends a long time whimpering into his pillow, curled up on his side with his bound hands in front of him, afraid to sleep for fear of what comes next, but too shattered to stay fully alert. 

In the end it's Douglas’ oiled fingers opening him up that wake him, readying him (physically anyway) for buggery. When he stops and slaps Martin's arse instead, Martin crawls to his knees and braces his bound hands against the headboard, still blinking the sleep from his eyes. 

It’s quick at least. Not too rough. Probably because they’re heading off to Oslo after lunch, and so Douglas unties him and pushes him into the shower to make himself presentable while Douglas chops and stirs and sautés. 

The thought and smell of food actually makes Martin feel sick, but he knows he needs to eat when Douglas lets him. So he swallows the bile and blinks away the tears, turns the spray on hot to combat the shivering and then down cold to shrink his cock to something more acceptable. He even chokes down the hot sweet coffee and toast, his eyes following Douglas around the kitchen until his odd, uneasy arousal smothers everything else. 

It’s all quite vanilla in Norway, but Herc is waiting for them when they get home, pulling Martin down on the sofa for a spanking, trousers round his ankles, and then an equally brisk and brutal fuck. Martin is almost smothered, left knee scrabbling to stay steady as the sofa cushions slide out from under and Herc pounds into his arse. It’s flattering, in a way. He knows he’s not all that, but Herc is hungry for him. Clutching, insistent. 

He’s left to pull his own clothes back on, made to sit in them through dinner, clear the table and fill the dishwasher, draw the blinds down and lock the back door, before he’s allowed – told – to strip again. 

‘On the table.’ Douglas already has the thin plastic rope out of the cupboard, doubling it over to make a loop. Its nasty stuff, tied tight enough to bite into Martin’s biceps and fret his wrists and ankles. They keep scissors to hand just in case it mangles too much. 

They consider tying it round his cock as well, but compromise on a cockring. Studded, to conduct the electricity better. 

Rolled onto his face, balls squashed to the wooden surface of the table, ankles wide apart, Martin looks, and sounds, pathetic. 

‘Hark at it.’ Herc says. ‘We haven’t even started yet.’ He finishes tying off Martin’s ankle to the table leg and stands back, looks expectantly at Douglas.

Who considers a moment, slides the wand against Martin’s calf, moving it up almost tenderly as Martin twitches, rubs it briefly against the soft hollow at the back of his knee, and shocks him. Just one sharp one right there, making the muscle spasm, the joint flex. 

He does it again before he moves on, upwards. Lingers coddled against Martin’s balls for more. Short staccato bursts. Martin is already babbling, but they’ll deal with that later. 

‘Did you want a go?’ It seems only polite to ask, but Herc is fine for now. He prefers to watch, just as Douglas prefers to wield. To be inventive, roaming Martin’s hapless body. Even fucking him with it, cooking oil spread lavishly around his arse as well as in. It makes him clench, and then dirty himself, and they run the tap, swab him down, leaving the moisture to linger up the crack of his arse as they do it again. 

They also make him apologise, scold him when it doesn’t sound sincere, all tangled up with sobs and humiliation. Herc even pulls his head up by his hair - rubber gauntlets up to the elbow just in case – and gloats at the wreck he finds there. 

‘More.’ he says at once, dropping him again. ‘God I’ve missed this.’ 

‘You should have a go.’ Douglas suggests again. 

‘Maybe for a little while.’ 

This time, because they’re together, there are no breaks. Instead they play around with it, turning Martin over to mix it up with a sound in his cock, and then turning him back to use ginger in his arse. Martin kicks, feebly and vaguely – not at either of them, just in mindless reflex – but his skinny legs are easily strapped back down, and they ‘punish’ him with longer bursts, until he’s really howling, and Herc can tell him it’s all his own fault.

Later they move him to lie across the table, spirit too broken to even raise his head, so that they can experiment with a ring gag, fucking through it into his mouth, spitroast him while he’s wearing it, pull his thighs apart and press the wand into his scrotum, into his arse again. 

Dawn is breaking by the time they’ve had enough, and it hardly seems worth cleaning him up or putting him to bed now. Easier to toss a blanket over him and leave him there, taut and trembling. 

‘Take the gag out though.’ Herc says from the stairs. 

‘Doing it now.’ The clasp has got caught up in Martin’s hair, but a small snip soon sets it free. The gingery curls he's cut off slide down the back of Douglas’ hand, surprisingly soft, like feathers. ‘Say goodnight, Martin.’ 

‘G’night.’ Martin’s jaw is stiff, lips swollen, nose running and eyes clogged, but the word is, just, recognisable.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s just as well that the wand leaves little real damage, because over the next 48 hours they take Martin to pieces with it. 

At first it’s degrading to be so dependent on them, barely able to stand, to dissolve into tears at a harsh word or an unexpectedly gentle one, to stammer and totter unco-ordinated, mind fogged. To be bathed with a sponge, walked lurching to the bathroom for the invasion of an enema, consciously relaxing into the drawn out discomfort. 

Later he’s too used up to even be ashamed, has to let Herc prop him up and Douglas squeeze his cock to point it down into the toilet bowl, shaking it sharply after to get the last drops off before they chivvy Martin along to the bedroom, the single wooden frame bed where he lays alone, one wrist still cuffed to the wall behind his head, dreams and waking moments coloured with the same slow familiar sense of emptiness and abandonment. 

It’s not that he wants them to be affectionate. They’re a means to an end, the flagellation he craves. To be nothing, to be no-one, with naught to think about and nothing to do except lick his wounds, like an animal, and wait until they want him again. 

Herc occasionally finds this lack of connection frustrating. Douglas finds it liberating. Martin becomes a body, breathing, feeling, hurting. A tangle of emotions and nerves, blotched face and incoherent squall. He’s not a lover or a friend, he doesn’t need to be worried about, or made allowances for. He just is. There in the house, there on the plane, ready to be used. It’s terribly convenient, having that kind of relief to hand. 

It’s also very pleasant to have his audience and accomplice back. It’s simply not as easy, or as entertaining, without him. 

It’s only a pity that there’s so little privacy in the cheap hotel in Greece, but Martin needs to spend some time recuperating anyway. He sleeps half the day away as well as the night, determined to be fit enough to fly them back, stupidly grateful that he’s allowed. 

Back in Fitton he takes another beating, this time with the ruler up the crack of his arse as well, and a fisting on top of that which makes him struggle like a mad thing, but he’s too tightly tied, and they fuck him regardless. He tries to howl, but he’s gagged again, the length of a small phallus pressed against his tongue, and it only makes him splutter and look stupid. 

It’s all, as Douglas tells him, very silly. What, after all, does he think he could do to stop them? Miserable little thing that he is. 

It’s so obvious it doesn’t really need saying, but Douglas likes to make it explicit anyway, sometimes, to drive it into him that there’s two of them, and one of Martin, and they’re bigger. Telling him that they’re plugging him up for later and they don’t want to know what he thinks about it. Letting him suck water through a straw only as long as he behaves himself and doesn’t try to talk.

Herc draws the line at closing the door on him though, while he’s still bound up like this. He was always the more scrupulous one. Worrying at first that this sort of thing couldn’t be good for Martin. 

‘Really Hercules.’ Douglas had said blandly. ‘You astonish me.’

‘I meant emotionally.’

‘Oh emotionally he’s already a screw up.’ Douglas said. ‘But he was that way when we found him, remember? We might as well get some fun out of it.’

But that was months and months ago, and Herc has shifted slowly from mild concern, to anger with Martin for being such a bloody victim and not lifting a finger to save himself, and then finally to disgust and determination not to waste his time thinking about it, or trying to curb Douglas in any way. You can’t help someone like that, and it’s not as if Martin was ever grateful.

Besides, with Martin in front of him, all teary eyed and supplicant, Herc really isn’t as scrupulous as he likes to think he is. That same aura of victimhood that revolts him also sets off all his most sadistic impulses. He tells himself its Martin's fault, breaking so prettily, and then offering himself up for more, day in day out. Or Douglas, the real energy behind this, whose pleasure means far more to Hercules than Martin’s welfare.

Either way he can certainly absolve himself of blame, which is all he really wanted. Can have his cake and eat it too. Can fuck Martin’s mouth before bedtime, holding him viciously tight and ramming deep into his throat, making him choke. 

Tears sting Martin’s eyes, but he swallows greedily, erection thickening, heat sliding up under his skin. He isn’t counting, but he hasn’t had an orgasm for nearly a fortnight. The occasional wet dream, horribly humiliating when they notice and pull him up on it, and of course he’s turned on – half-hard and aching for more – repeatedly, constantly. 

He doesn’t know if it’s on purpose or they’ve just overlooked it, and since he’s too scared to ask, he can only make a point of not counting the days. They blur together anyway, when it’s the three of them at home. He doesn’t have a routine or a set bedtime. Only snatches sleep when they’re both tired of him – which is not always the same time. Only eats when they remember to feed him.

He gets a little tatty, hair needs cutting and bags under his eyes, but there is something purgative, purifying, about the tears, about the pain and unsatisfied lust, the hollow emptiness of hunger and the dizzy vacancy of sheer exhaustion. Something that makes the world simple. Stripped bare. Everything human in him ripped away, to leave only the rawest of emotions, heat and fear and soft, pathetic self-pity.

‘Wretched little idiot.’ Douglas says, and Martin nods, already gagged again, and bites down hard on the slick, unyielding latex. Seeking relief as Douglas fucks him in his bruised and welted arse. 

He’s not needed for the next trip, but they take him along to play with anyway, whiling away the four hour stopover, taking turns for the two hours each way. They bring him back almost insensible, only waking as Douglas finger fucks him, sobs as he’s actually fucked, almost crawls into the back seat of the car, and staggers from there to the front door. 

‘Let him sleep for now.’ Herc suggests. ‘He’ll be all the more ready in the morning.’

Despite his private conviction that Martin could take more, that this pale, fragile, frightened side to him is his best side, Douglas lets it go. He’ll have Martin to himself again tomorrow. Can fuck him with the electric wand and switch it on while it’s inside him, a metal pin piercing his scrotum through, a rubber ring tied between his teeth, holding his jaw open so Douglas can fuck him in the intervals, without debate, without warning. 

Martin shudders and tenses, drool dripping down his chin, chokes and begs incoherently. Stains his cheeks with tears, lashes sticking, hopeless and helpless. 

Afterwards he’s lightheaded. Sobs and sobs as he’s unstrapped and allowed to curl up on his side, Douglas cleaning him up with tissues. Douglas lets him cry. It happens sometimes – body going into shock – but it never lasts more than ten or twenty minutes. Less if Douglas gets him off. 

But Douglas doesn’t want to get him off. He wants to make him wait. He knows Herc thinks Martin is weak – that this is what the submission is all about. That he’s craving discipline. 

Douglas thinks this is nonsense. Fundamentally misguided, like all the baloney Herc talked back when he wondered if Martin was happy. It's not Martin's lot to be happy, and he wouldn't know what to do with it anyway. The best Martin can hope for is to get off more. 

They don’t need to be gentle with him. They don’t need to be kind. 

He doesn’t need to get off. 

They do it quickly though in Bangkok, simply so they can use the sounds again. They let him fly back as well, because that is the one thing Martin really does need from time to time. Besides, Herc is tired. Almost too tired to participate in the beating with a rattan, the fucking after the ginger has done its evil work. He heads to bed and leaves Martin alone with Douglas, straps around his wrists and ankles, collar snug around his throat. 

Actually, now his partner has gone, Douglas doesn’t do anything worse than make use of Martin’s mouth a couple of times, leaning back against the doorframe and pulling him in close, his eyes wide and wet, cheeks lightly streaked. 

Unfortunately it trickles down his chin as Douglas pulls out, and Douglas immediately slaps him hard enough to topple him over, his cheek already staining livid where he’s been struck. Martin swallows hard, keeps down on the floor, chases the last of the come with his tongue. 

‘You know what that was for?’ Douglas asks. 

‘Yes.’ He’s meant to swallow it all. He doesn’t bother to make excuses why he couldn’t. Blinks a few tears away as Douglas hauls him up again by his hair and has him crawl to the sofa, in easy reach of Douglas while he reads. It's going to be a long night.


	5. Chapter 5

Up late with Douglas, up early being fucked by Herc, who doesn’t comment on the slap-mark or the dark circles under Martin’s eyes. Only plays with him awhile and puts a leash on him again. 

He slips into the pet play easily enough for two days. It’s almost comforting, not to think, not to fret. Not to wonder what they’re going to come up with next. He’s not a lapdog though. He crawls and sits up and begs when told, and is fed from a dish, but they don’t stroke him except in passing, and they don’t let him on the sofa or the beds with them. He’s got a blanket, and he’s expected to stay on it while they talk, and cook, and kiss. 

They do let him sleep upstairs, on a slightly thicker blanket, with his wrists cuffed together, and for the first time in as long as he can remember he can hear them doing something sexual without him, moans and creaks and muttered, breathless, praise. 

He should probably be relieved, but it just makes him feel useless. 

It isn’t any better when they get back to work. With Herc here Martin isn’t needed in the co-pilot’s seat, and so he’s blindfolded, buggered, plugged and handcuffed before they even leave the house, a rubber cock ring at the root of his erection, his trouser buttons straining over the top. He feels every bump in the road on the way to the airport, and they take turns with him during the flight, making sure he stays warmed up, shivering and moaning when touched. He tries to be good though. Quiet. Not a distraction. 

His reward, once they’re safely in the hotel, is a ball stretcher and a vibrator, and what seem like hours of not being allowed to come, and pints of semen pumped down his throat. He’s more vocal now they’re not on Gerti, begging for his release, but they use ice instead, and take him out to dinner, and leave the stretcher on all night in the end, laying him on the bed between them and stroking the tight, soft, purpling balls until it’s time to sleep.

It has to come off for customs, because it’s metal, but it’s on again by the time they’re taxiing down the runway to leave, through the flight, touchdown, paperwork and dinner and the drive home and the spitroast – Martin on his hands and knees this time, not tied up – and the handjob Herc gives him. 

Martin is writhing by the end. Clutches at the carpet, tears running down his cheeks. Arches off the floor and kicks his heels against it until Douglas gets tired of that and holds him down. His balls ache, burn, hurt, but Herc is determined to make him come. Drags it out of him, huge and sharp and awful, and leaves him shattered.

They put him to bed, handcuffed to the wall as usual, the door closed so he can’t hear them talking about him if he wakes. They don’t normally need to these days – he’s willing, and easy, and as long as they both get what they want it’s probably best not to overanalyse it, but sometimes they want new things, different things, and that’s a discussion best had tête-à-tête. They will not argue or undermine each other in front of their wee slave. 

On this occasion they aren’t, in fact, in disagreement. Douglas has two suggestions, both items he’d like to purchase. The first is a rubber flogger with thin, flexible fronds suitable, he suggests, for Martin’s balls. Pulled tight with the stretcher and with Martin bent over he thinks they could make him scream, even scar him perhaps, without too much deep tissue damage. 

The second is a chastity cage, and this one will not just be for occasional use. 

‘It’ll have to come off going through security.’ He shows Herc the Perspex tube and metal pin arrangement online. ‘But that’s alright. We can still use it at home, and overnight.’ 

‘That seems reasonable enough.’ Herc doesn’t get off on denial in the same way Douglas does, but he doesn’t particularly care if Martin gets to come either. It’s a useful bargaining chip, that’s all.

His own suggestion is something new to both of them. He wants to let Dirk the grounds keeper have at Martin. It will soon be his 40th birthday, after all, and they’ve known him a long time. Besides, a few hours with a kneeling, trussed up, compliant little piece like Martin would be just the thing to help him turn a blind eye next time they want to smuggle something in or out of the airport grounds. 

‘I don’t think I'd mind too much.’ Douglas says, trying to judge both how possessive he feels, and how dangerous Herc's suggestion might possibly be. ‘Just as long as Martin is wearing his nice, new chastity belt through it though. I’m not having Dirk give him something we’re not.’

‘Fair enough.’ Herc kisses Douglas to seal the deal, laughs when Douglas catches at his arm to keep him close. ‘How long should we leave him unsatisfied this time, do you think? Three weeks again - or longer?’ 

‘Three weeks and two days.’ 

‘Fine. And shall I tell him about Dirk - say - five days before? Give him his chance to argue if he wants?’ 

Predictably though, Martin doesn’t. He goes pale, and rocks a bit on his knees, and stammers. But ultimately he lets himself go along with it, hot and confused, his cock tight and twisted in the grip of the new chastity device, his knees bruising against the cement floor. 

Herc has left the two of them alone in one of the old customs sheds for a few hours, taking Martin’s clothes away with him when he left. Douglas didn’t even come to the airfield in the first place. Claimed it didn't interest him. 

But Martin doesn’t want to think about that, doesn’t want to think about anything. He just sucks Dirk off faithfully, eyes half-closed, blocking everything else out. Dirk isn't a kindly lover, but that only makes it easier. Martin is used to being choked, to being pulled away by his hair, lips wet and eager and red as Dirk comes in his face and calls him a slut. 

‘Go on, you know you want to.’ He smirks, sniggers, rubbing his now soft dick over Martin’s lips. ‘Lick it clean.’ 

He can probably tell that Martin has done this a hundred times. His tongue soft and thorough and his cheeks pink with heat and humiliation. His cock aches in its plastic prison. 

Dirk keeps him on the floor, seems to find it funny, but otherwise pretty much ignores him until he wants to be sucked gently back to hardness. 

‘That’s right you little shit.’ 

Martin’s skin is tight. The words roll over him, through him, like they always do. Slut, fucker, asking for it, gagging for it. When Dirk pulls away he’s left gaping, half drugged with lack of air and abuse. 

‘Bend over.’ Dirk slaps him for being slow, calls him a shit again. Preps him quick with three fingers and too much lube, pushing in before Martin can relax into it, and continues to swear, hot and vicious and incoherent, all the time he’s buggering him. 

Afterwards Martin feels numb. He doesn’t say anything when Herc picks him up, just puts his clothes on like he’s told, and gets in the car. Doesn’t speak until Herc speaks first. 

‘Perhaps we should invite Dirk round from time to time.’ He says. ‘It’s good to share, don’t you think?’ 

‘Won’t Douglas mind?’ Martin doesn’t say if he minds. Doesn’t even ask himself that question. It’s easier to think of himself as not having a choice. He can’t stop thinking about the way Dirk spoke to him, the hot burn of humiliation and arousal. It makes his stomach hurt.

‘Let me worry about Douglas.’ Herc says dismissively. 

Martin doesn’t know if that conversation happens or not. Days pass without it being mentioned again, and they fly out to somewhere Martin doesn’t even get to hear the name of, since he never sets foot off the plane. It’s a piddly little place with almost no security though. Herc and Douglas sleep and eat at the airport hotel in shifts and beat and batter and fuck Martin in shifts too. He shrieks when the new flogger hits his balls, but he’s all spread out with bars and leather straps and there’s nothing he can do. 

‘Don’t be a baby.’ Douglas says. Then, more affectionately. ‘Come on, deep breaths. You can do it.’ 

But Martin can’t do it, and they’ll have to gag him if they try it in the hotels. Douglas, who knows about safewords and ‘the scene’, likes how there’s none of that complication with Martin. Nothing ambiguous or half-hearted or wholesome about it. Just pure filth and total control. Sometimes they gag him – a gag he can breathe through, but still a gag – for hours. Sometimes they make him cry or hurt him until they know he’s trying to scream, face all screwed up and red, sometimes they ratchet his jaw nice and wide and fuck right down into his throat. And he crawls and squirms and sits on his sore and skinny little arse and waits to be fucked and fucked over again. 

Martin doesn’t expect anything else. Herc likes to call him idiot boy, from time to time, and exhorts him to try harder, but he’s not so stupid that he thinks he’s getting out of this. Ever. There isn't an ounce of sympathy left for him now, and he's far too feeble to even think of resistance.


	6. Chapter 6

Just to rub it in though, and because it’s Herc’s birthday, they invite Dirk round to fuck and fist Martin over the kitchen table while Carl and Douglas and Herc use his open mouth, all stretched and pink around the ring gag. 

‘Don’t worry about Martin.’ Douglas reassures Carl. ‘He wants Herc to have a nice party.’ He puts his hand on the back of Martin’s neck as if to soothe him, or perhaps just to get his attention, and Martin nods, right on cue, still panting from the battering he’s just had from Dirk’s fist and the strain of trying to breathe round Douglas’ cock.

He might even mean it. Or think he means it. Or he might think he’s going to be punished with worse if he doesn’t play along. Douglas isn’t as bothered about those details as he used to be. Anyway Carl does the necessary again and Herc gets to watch, which is all either of them really care about. 

They all need a little time to recover, but a big, thick plug of ginger up his arse and a nice hard rattan across his thighs gets the blood going again. This time Herc goes first and settles down to watch Dirk, clutching hard in Martin’s hair as his hips snap viciously, calling him a randy little fuckwit and worse.

It’s not Douglas’ usual flavour of abuse, but it can only be good for him. Anyway Carl, who seemed troubled by how rough Dirk is being – Martin’s body jerking, limbs twitching, tears hot and wet on his cheeks - is certainly enjoying the invective much more. 

Douglas saves his own turn for the last, and is amused to see that while Dirk has already left, Carl lingers until Douglas has finished, refastened his trousers, and sojourned to the living room. Still polite, Douglas puts some music on to mask the fact that Herc is locking the door behind them, and offers the man a quick drink ‘for the road’. 

By the time Carl is gone, and Herc is sated enough to unlock that door, Martin is black and blue and whimpering softly, skin broken across his thighs and down the crack of his arse. Lips swollen, balls bruised, arse dilated and gaping. 

Douglas is surprised at Herc, but not displeased. Perhaps he’s finally come round to the point of view that Martin likes it this way. Or perhaps he decided that it’s his birthday and he can take what he really wants just this once. 

Of course Martin can’t leave the house for a week, but that’s alright. They anticipated that. It’s all shortish hops for a while, taking turns to stay at home with him while his bruises heal. Screwing him and telling him to stop snivelling when it hurts. 

‘You know you get off on it.’ Douglas says. 

(‘Have you had enough yet?’ Herc had asked him, somewhere in the revels, not waiting or wanting or expecting an answer. ‘Do you want some more?’)

Martin knows he’s pathetic, pint-sized, scrawny. He knows he’s being bad, and that Douglas is right, and he gets off on it. Even the times when he doesn’t.. really.. get off at all. Even when he sometimes rages against his fate, thrashes in his bonds, howls into the gag – he can’t deny the truth of it. It’s no wonder they ignore him, or ask if baby is having a tantrum again. 

They keep him in an extra week, simply because they can, then take him out to Istanbul for two days, make him come repeatedly this time, with a thick vibrator – black rubber, heavy and hard – and a slicked rubber sheath up and down the length of him. Gagged again, clawing feebly at the sheets, tied up spread-eagled, he comes dry at last, squealing, but they still don’t stop. Pause only to fuck him, to check the ropes aren’t too tight or too loose, and carry on. 

He’s half asleep on the flight back, stumbles into the office and the pile of blankets they let him sleep on while they work, breaking off for a fuck, or sometimes, when it’s raining and they don’t want to walk to the toilet block, a piss. 

There’s a gag for that, with a funnel. Martin shudders as it’s strapped on, but his cock twitches, always treacherous, and the humiliation – on his knees, just swallowing as the smell fills his nostrils and the wet warmth his mouth and throat - makes him feel so, so dirty. Like he doesn’t deserve better. Sometimes they leave it in afterwards, if the rain is heavy and they’ll be there a while, and he has to lie back down, the hard tiles barely cushioned by the rugs beneath him, with his jaw worked open so that saliva escapes his lips and trickles slowly down his cheek. 

‘One sound.’ Douglas threatens. ‘Just one, and I’ll take my belt to you, right here.’ And Martin knows he means it. He’s done it before, over the desk. Martin knows he can be thick – Herc and Douglas are better at just about everything, and especially everything to do with flying – but he has learnt to do as he’s told. It’s been drummed into him good and hard. 

They do the books in the office too, plan the diary going forwards, but Martin doesn’t need to know about all that. He hears snippets, but nothing he can piece together. Often he finds out where he’s flying to the same way, tied up on the flightdeck floor, pants around his ankles for easy access. It’s just the way it is. There’s nothing he can contribute. He’s just a fucktoy now really.

That’s one of Dirk’s words. Herc prefers ‘plaything’, especially when encouraging Douglas to pimp him out some more. Martin is not consulted. Doesn’t expect to be. The closest anyone comes to it is when he’s being fucked at both ends – a machine in his arse and Carl in his mouth (Douglas is away), and Herc asks if he really thought he’d ever get away with servicing just the two of them. 

Rhetorically, of course, since Martin can’t answer with Carl’s great long cock stuffed down his gullet. 

Not that there is a right answer anyway. 

It’s Herc who invites Carl round behind Douglas’ back, but its Martin that Douglas takes his anger out on. He’s not sorry for the excuse, if he’s honest. It makes Martin scared of him, scuttling to obey, not daring to meet his eyes. It makes Douglas feel powerful. Besides, why have Martin at all, if not to be their whipping boy? 

Herc enjoys it too, lazily aroused and rather flippant about the whole thing. 

He does promise not to go behind Douglas’ back again though. Despite the fact it is more fun with two, as Douglas very well knows. Douglas, in turn, will try to learn to share his toys. Not always, but from time to time. He actually quite likes hearing Dirk call Martin a little shit as he fucks him. It’s the sort of thing Martin needs to hear as often as possible. 

They tells Carl he enjoys it, which isn’t quite a lie. It’s hard to tell with Martin, what with his boners when he’s beaten, and the spiritless acceptance of his punishment, even when it’s not him who’s at fault. 

It’s nearly ten days before he’s able to sit down, even gingerly, on the harder chairs, but they fuck him just the same, using the sharp-smelling anaesthetic gel as a kindness, or the hot cinnamon one to be cruel. They bind him to his single bed, mouth agape around the ballgag, and leave him sobbing and broken, thin streaks of blood in the cum that smears the sheets.

Every morning his lashes are stuck together with tears, and he trembles and shrinks, trying to make his thin unthreatening form even smaller, to make himself invisible. A technique doomed to failure, since both his masters rather like him like this. 

When simple sex is no longer enough to bring him to the point of hysteria, they suspend him from the doorframe and penetrate him together, sliding their cocks up and into him alternately at first, watching his widening eyes, his gaze darting between them with frantic pleas for mercy, the staccato movements of his legs as they almost collapse from under him. 

The noises he makes are guttural, not quite human, and if allowed to speak he babbles, but there’s nothing to the point. He’s become irrational, a mess of sensations and hysteria, impossible to identify with, or even understand. 

They bugger him on the floor, holding him down, one after the other, while he struggles to escape, great sobs heaving in his chest, too small and weak to be effective. 

‘Pack it in Martin.’ Douglas says afterwards. ‘You know what you did.’ 

But he is a pilot, and they can’t keep him like that forever. They slowly feed him up, let him have a little more sleep, until he’s fit to fly. 

Fit to be handcuffed to the waste pipe in the hotel bathroom, his mouth forced open with a dental gag, equally ready to be a whore or a urinal. Then the same office on the flight back. It’s a cargo flight – they’re nearly all cargo flights now, for this very reason. With Herc’s redundancy package and Douglas’ mortgage paid off it’s more than enough money to keep things ticking over and put a bit aside for a rainy day. It’s not like they have to pay Martin a wage. 

The stupid boy wouldn’t know what to do with it if they did. He can’t leave the room now without asking first. Has to keep the door open. Is never out of sight of one or the other of them. 

Or at least – sometimes, when he’s tied up, spread and on a fucking machine, or bent over a table or a bed – then they may leave him to it a little while, just to reinforce his place in all this, to wear his heart out. 

He daren’t ask for charity now, or even information. He just takes it and takes it. Dirty and discarded and ashamed of how hard it makes him, cock swollen and twisted inside the perspex tube. Hot and red and useless. 

He knows Douglas feels it too. That Martin was marked out for this. Made for it. One of life’s victims. Defeat and acceptance in every line of this body. He and Herc debate it sometimes, in a mild way, not bothering to keep it from Martin’s ears any more. Martin is nothing. No-one. Both of them are entirely clear on that. 

Still they let him fly, from time to time, and call it a kindness.


End file.
